Truest of Friends
by Belthronding
Summary: Silmarillion based. Of Beleg's life before meeting Turin (featuring Cirdan and a young Beleg) and the events of his life with Túrin (featuring Nellas, and Mablung) *Part II added*
1. Part I: Before Túrin

Truest of friends

Author's Note: I've often wondered on the subject of Beleg. Not much is truly known of him, so I've taken it upon myself to write those years before he became Chief of the marchwardens of Thingol, and a little after. I tried to make it as light as possible, all the dark tales and themes from the First Age can get a bit depressing at times, but I couldn't really, there's too much sadness in Beleg's life, not enough happiness.

All the characters are of course JRR Tolkien's except the fic itself.  Some credit to the Annals of Arda for extra information, on the subject of Dailir, and also HoME book III.

I'm not sure I got my Sindarin sentence right; if it's wrong, I'm sorry, please e-mail me with the correct translation.

                                                                                                                         *

Phase I: Life before Turin 

_The call of the sea was strong. It tugged like a string at the hearts of the newlywed couple. Eglarest was to be their new home; the southern haven of the Falas, and that was where they wanted their firstborn to grow up. So it was that in this town the first cries of Beleg pierced the air. We are in the last Valian Years of the Trees; soon they will be but a faded memory to those who had lived under them, living only in thought, and the First Age will begin, where this tale takes place._

*

An arrow soared through the air, in a perfect arc, and imbedded itself in the nearest tree. A silver haired elf turned and frowned in mock anger, though his silver grey eyes danced with laughter. An inch more and it would have scraped his cheek.

'Come out Beleg, I know you are hiding somewhere in the bushes.'

The foliage rustled, nothing more. Círdan could not but smile, the wrinkles around his eyes, as great rivers of knowledge, diverged and changed courses. Beleg, no more than ten years old at the time, and already a very promising archer. Círdan had told him than when he was full grown he would have made for him a special bow. Until then, the young elf had to make do with a small wooden one, given to him by his mother, as a premise for his destined skill.

'Beleg? Young tearaway!' He chuckled.

 As Círdan moved away towards the harbour to supervise the building of a new ship, Beleg came out of his safe hiding place, and giggled, beside himself with glee. Yet again he had managed to stay undercover and not be seen. The arrow was of course not strictly _aimed_ at Círdan, just destined to frighten him. The shipwright was his favourite play target, as he never grew impatient with him, but remained smiling, somewhat disapproving, but all thoroughly in jest. _After all_, he thought to himself, _I'm going to become the best archer there ever was, so I need as much practise as possible. _He bared his teeth, like a fell beast, and emitted a low growl, but the few birds that lingered still in the pale twilight, enjoying the last warmth of the day, paid not the slightest bit of notice to the explorer, the daring warrior and archer _extraordinaire_ that lay before them.

'Beleg!' A voice called him from afar, a singsong, carefree voice, sweet as bells, his mother's.

Instantly, the foul look on his face dissipated, and Beleg become his mother's young boy again. He was fairly short, but still had plenty of years to grow. Raven dark hair, slightly undulating, hung in unruly clumps. A blade of grass was enmeshed into it, sticking up in defiance. His scruffy tunic was grubby and discoloured.

'Coming!' He hollered back, and scampered out of sight in a cloud of dust. 

                                                                                                                      *

In the Year 455 of the First Age was the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame. This proved perilous in the life of Beleg. He was still young at the time, around 60 years old. His father, who felt strongly about various causes, be it in warfare or shipbuilding, went to battle, and in an act of love and passion, his mother followed suit, determined to show off her prowess.

 Both came never back to the Falas, but sit in Mandos, awaiting their beloved son, who came to them far sooner than they expected, or indeed wanted.

You may wonder, pray why did Beleg not go with his parents? But his father, knowing more of the threat in the North than him, disallowed his son to follow, placing him in the care of Círdan, as a mentor. Beleg resented this, and would have gone, but Círdan retained him.

'It is not yet your time. You are but young in the ways of the world.'

Círdan appeased Beleg, who was silenced, but after a few days he felt his parents had perished. He knew not how, but for many nights, haunting visions came to him, of blood red flames, Balrogs, orcs and the mighty Glaurung, the Worm of Angband. He had not met any of these fell creatures, but their names were heard often enough in these times through word of mouth, and Beleg sensed the fear they invoked. He shuddered thinking of his parents anguish, despair and terror, consumed alive by the mighty flames, or worse still, trapped by them and unable to fly to safety, choking and gasping their last breaths in Arda. A deep fire was kindled in his heart, and was never wholly extinguished. It crackled and blazed, and was fed by his hatred for the Enemy, the murderers of his parents, taken from him too soon.

Beleg went to see Círdan, begging his leave; he knew he could no longer stay in the Falas by the sea, with the deaths of his parents to avenge. He would go to Doriath, to serve King Thingol. The shipwright was expecting this, though not wanting it to come to pass. With much sadness he presented Beleg with a beautiful bow, Belthronding, made of black yew-wood.  It was hard horn pointed and stringed with bare sinews. It was strong, and so hard to bend that neither elf nor man could do so, save Beleg.

'For there is a magic in it Beleg, and you alone can wield it.'

With this gift came an arrow, Dailir, though it does not enter into this tale. Suffice to know it was never used by Beleg, though it remained with him at all times, and the beloved dart went unbroken until the night its owner perished at the hands of his friend. 

'Your father ordered I make this for you, Beleg. I have respected his wishes. May it be your lucky charm, for I doubt very much he intended you to use it.'

With a twinkle in his eye Círdan handed the dart to Beleg. It was bound in silver cloth, so he unwrapped it and gazed upon the creation his father had dreamt up for him. It scintillated as it caught the dawn light, the rays of Anor bouncing off its polished smooth surface. Gently but cautiously he brushed his finger against it. It was warm to the touch, and in fact now that Beleg had started caressing it, he could not bare to put it down. He knew also how much love and craftsmanship and gone into its making. He would not let the dart out of his possession, for it was verily the only material link of love that remained between himself and his parents.

'Farewell Beleg. _Aa' i'sul nora lanne'lle-_May the wind fill your sails.' Círdan's voice broke the enchantment. 

Beleg smiled sadly. 'You know I am eager to go, I cannot fain reluctance, but I will miss you the most. May we meet again in happier circumstances.'

Thus Círdan and Beleg parted, in close friendship, but never again did they lay eyes on each other.

                                                                                                                    *

It was early spring of First Age 456 when Beleg set out alone, walking steadily northeastwards.  Flowers were beginning to bloom in earnest; the world was alight with sound and colour, hues of yellow, pink, purple, and the lush green of springy grass. Birds flew overheard, their raucous calls mingling with the other creatures of nature. Beleg's finely tuned ear could perceive insects buzzing and crawling on the newly green paths, small beasts hiding in bushes, as he had so often done in his childhood, and the soft low rushing of streams and rivers, gliding on their courses. With this simple, yet elemental rustic scene, a new hope bloomed in Beleg. He had left his old life behind, in the Falas, and though he would not forget his parents, who lived on in his memory only, and in Dailir, he was going forwards, taking control of his life. Doriath awaited him.

                                                                                                                   *

Under Thingol, Beleg's life took a turn for the better. Not that his whole life had been misery, for his younger days had been happy and carefree, but since his parents had gone to the Dagor Bragollach, he had sunken into a dark and reflective mood. In Doriath Beleg was reunited with kin he did not know, but that his parents had often spoken of. Among them was Mablung, though far distant kin, and they were fast in friendship. Beleg joined himself to the Heavy Hand's company, and Belthronding did him proud, and won renown throughout the forest of Neldoreth, so much so that Beleg became chief of the marchwardens of Thingol, and won the name Cuthalion. Every time he slew a fell creature, he thought of his mother, she who had presaged his wonderful skill with the bow. He found that Belthronding sang to him as it spewed arrows to and fro, left and right, always on target. All save Dailir, who reminded him of his father, grave, dignified, smooth and well polished. Thus his parents were never far, either from mind or body.

                                                                                                                   *

Now in the year 468, rumours of a northern war were first heard in Doriath. Mablung and Beleg alone desired leave to join it. Thingol was against it, for the Kinslayers had slayed his kin after all. But Beleg would not have no part in any great deeds against Morgoth, and finally with Mablung they went under the banners of Fingon, and marched to war. In the Fens of Serech he was stationed in 472, and mighty Belthronding had a new chance to shine, and hewed arrows at any Enemy that approached it. But alas for treachery, and the elves were not victorious. _Luckily_, Beleg survived and made the journey back to Menegroth. 

He walked silently, and was just approaching the eaves of Doriath when he spotted two figures in the distance. No, he corrected himself, _three_ figures, for one was sat, resting against a tree. Silently he came ever forward, but the three men, for he perceived that they were not of the Eldar, did not pay any heed, or did not hear him. The two standing he saw were aged. Valiant they looked perhaps, but great fatigue they bore.

Suddenly, with a cry a small figure dashed towards him, legs flailing, a stick in hand. Beleg hardly had time to draw his sword that the person was upon him. He laughed as he realised it was but a _mere boy_. He was dark of hair and complexion, and when both were upright he saw into his eyes. A deep sadness lurked in those pools of darkness, shadows of previous grievances. He was startled to see a certain savagery too, and a hint of aggression.

'Who are you and what do you search?' His little voice piped up.

Beleg raised an eyebrow. 'It is rather I who should be asking that very question, for these woods are my home.'

'We are going to the King of the elves in Menegroth. My father has been there.' He announced proudly.

'What business seek you with him?'

The boy's childish features turned cold, his little face seemed to have aged years, and he would say no more, like a fortress whose drawbridge was pulled up.

'Our business is our own.' This was one of the boy's companions.

'I have but good intentions. Speak your name, for I defend these woods against any unwanted strangers.'

'I am Gethron.' He said gruffly. 'And this is Grithnir. We seek Thingol urgently. He expects us. We must deliver Túrin, (and here he pointed at the boy) to him.'

Beleg could tell these men were speaking the truth, and he offered his help in leading them to Menegroth. 

'We're not lost.' Túrin frowned.

Beleg could only laugh. Túrin much reminded him of himself as a child. He ruffled Túrin's hair.

_'One day you shall make a great swordsman if this is anything to go by.'_

                                                                                                                       *

Any reviews gratefully accepted. There shall be Part II: Life after Turin following, sometime. Maybe.


	2. Part II: With Túrin

__

Author's note: This had been written quite some time ago, except a short paragraph added more recently, concerning Beleg's search for Nellas. Just so you know, I am relying on information from The Silmarillion and Unfinished Tales, but not The lays of Beleriand, for I had not finished reading it when I undertook to write this chapter, so for the sake of keeping it as I had intended it, I have not altered anything that you may come across in The lays of Beleriand.

****

Truest of friends: Phase the second

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
During his first few years in Thingol's Halls, Beleg and Túrin spoke little, for Túrin was but seven years old, a mere child and yet young in the ways of the world. This did not mean they never acknowledged each other's presence; as Beleg observed the child from afar. He did not know much of men, but foresaw already that Túrin would make a deft and brave warrior. Secretly he guarded him, as he was oft alone playing games and whispering to himself the names of Morwen, Lalaith and later Nienor who were, as Beleg learnt later, the only family he had known. For Hurin his father had been a prisoner of Morgoth since the Nirnaeth, the battle of unnumbered tears. Those games delighted Beleg; he had no younger siblings of his own and the innocence of the young boy touched him deeply. It was only natural therefore that as Túrin grew towards manhood a bond would form between the two.  
But Beleg was not alone in observing him. When Túrin had been in Menegroth for a matter of months, he espied a corner of white cloth, and fleetinglty, the paleness of a naked limb among the dense foliage of the trees. For another month he did not see sign of the mysterious ghost, but then one Spring evening, as he sat polishing Belthronding, his treasured bow, in a quiet corner, he was aware of another presence, and looking up, he set eyes on the white limbed person. He was startled that he had not heard her approach, for though he was much absorbed in his task, his ears were open to all sounds of the wild. He looked on her kindly for all his wariness as her appearance generated pity. She was small, pale in complexion, and gave off such an aura of innocence and childishness that all who gazed upon her, and they were not many, were moved deeply.  
  
'Well, pretty maiden, why do you stand before me, yet speak not?'  
  
The maiden, embarassed by the compliment, looked down at the forest floor, and studied the pattern of a fallen leaf while her cheeks turned a healthy glowing pink.  
  
'I notice that you too follow Túrin on occasion. The Queen Melian told me to do so if he strayed too far. Did she send you also, or does she think I do not carry out the task as she intended?' She spoke quickly, as if in a rush to get the words out of her mouth.  
  
Beleg considered the elf. He had vaguely heard of a nís living in the woods, named Nellas, but neither King nor Queen had spoken of her to him.  
  
'Nay, young maiden. The Queen sends me to tell you she is most satisfied. I guard Túrin for I have liked him ere the moment I met him.'  
  
'Really?' It was an answer to Beleg's first statement, and though the maiden tried to keep a grave face, she couldn't suppress a smile.  
  
'Indeed.' Beleg smiled too.  
  
From then on, the two oft sat together, under the shade of a tree, silent but grateful of the other's presence. Now and then Beleg motioned to Nellas, and she would leave their spot and appear unexpected in front of Túrin, ready to teach him Sindarin or other learnings. Beleg noticed that though at first the boy's mood lifted, and he grew to calling for Nellas, gradually his thoughts turned dark again, and they saw each other not at all. He deemed it to be his time, and he started coming to Menegroth regularly, eager to teach Túrin woodcraft, and the arts of archery and sword fighting. 

Sometimes Beleg would take Túrin throughout the woods of Neldoreth. There they paused often and enjoyed a few archery contests, Beleg letting Túrin win the first few times, but it was with a sword that Túrin preferred to fight, and indeed he soon excelled at it, whisking it this way and that, so the metal was no more than a blur.  
  
Once, Túrin came upon Beleg carving a figure in deep mahogany wood. It was of a hunter, game slung over his shoulder, garments slightly torn, and even from the chiselled beginnings of a face, he could see the proud, satisfied expression the carving would have, due to Beleg's deft and agile hands. Immediately, he asked for a piece of wood for himself, for he had grand designs of his own. The elf gave him an equal lump of wood, and taking the boy's hands in his, he showed him how to turn the knife this way and that, to create curves, small details and the finishing smoothness. Túrin grew impatient and pushed away the help of his friend, but Beleg remained and they worked side by side for a while, until Beleg had completed his carving. He then looked down at Túrin.  
  
'And who's likeness are you creating?'  
  
'It is my sister Nienor. Though I have not seen her I know she is beautiful.'  
  
Beleg bent closer. The face was bland, rudimentary, for Túrin had not paid attention to details, such as eyes, flowing hair or the ripples of the figure's clothing. Suddenly, the knife in Túrin's hand shoved too deeply into the wood, so half the face was scraped away. At first the boy looked in disbelief upon the marred carving, but then he flung it away. It sailed in a wide arc through the air, and landed with a soft thump several feet away. Beleg moved to pick it up and brought it back to were Túrin sat.  
  
'I do not want it!'  
  
'Do not be so quick to anger, Túrin.'  
  
'It does not look like my sister, but rather some strange silenced creature now.'  
  
'Why so hard on yourself? Woodcarving is a skill that does not come just because one wants it. You will progress if you persevere, as with sword fighting.'  
  
'Too late, too late! I don't want to anymore. What good can a carving do? I would rather know how to attack or defend myself and my family against the Enemy.'  
  
'Such sad words should not be uttered by a child. You will fight more than you wish to when you are older. Enjoy your youth while you can.'  
  
'I cannot. A shadow lies upon it.' Túrin got up, his boyish features once more turning grave and serious, and slowly walked away.  
  
Beleg sighed to himself, while contemplating his pupil's modest efforts. He laid the marred figure in the clearing where they had sat and that evening, when Túrin climbed into bed he found Beleg's own carving upon his pillow.  
  
**  
  
  
In the Spring of the year when Túrin had nearly reached manhood, no messengers came back from Hithlum bearing the usual messages of good tidings. Thingol would send no more, so a determined Túrin asked for a sword and the Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lómin and joined Beleg on the north marches of Doriath. Thus they became companion in arms for three years, and no fell beast was safe. However, one day, Turin came back to Menegroth without Beleg looking himself like some fell creature, with his garments torn and grubby. Saeros, an elf who was jealous of Túrin's favour with the King taunted him, and waylaid him as he was in walking in the woods. Alas for what happened next! Chasing Saeros, the latter tried jumping over a stream, but fell in and his body broke on a jagged rock. It had not been in Túrin's mind to pursue the elf unto his death, but rather, he would have let him go. Mablung coming saw what was done, and bade Túrin go to Thingol's judgement, but Túrin thought he would be wronged and fled.

It was soon after that Beleg returned from the north, anxious to know where his friend was. As he approached the eaves of the forest he perceived a darkness hanging over Doriath, and sought out Mablung straight away. It was as he had feared: Túrin had gone, but Saeros had been killed on a sharp rock, after having been madly pursued by Túrin! Beleg could not believe such a thing, his friend was quick to anger, impatient often enough, but he had mercy enough.

'Are you sure of these grave matters?' He questioned the Heavy Hand.

'I rely only on what I saw. Túrin running through the woods, sword in hand, and ahead Saeros who then fell into Esgalduin onto a sharp rock. What more is there to think?

Beleg had nothing to answer, but it grieved him deeply to see his companion so wronged, for he understood that there was more to the situation than a simple chase through the woods. Then it was that he remembered Nellas, the maiden who played with Túrin in his boyhood and now watched over him silently. Surely, surely she had seen or heard something more?

Beleg left Mablung and went in search of the fair maiden, seeking out the most sheltered part of the woods, where he knew she oft could be found. He heard her before he laid eyes on her; gentle sobbing, that together with the soft calling of birds, gave the scene a tragic air, for it was as if the whole forest was in mourning for Túrin's wronging. 

'Hush, Nellas. I know why you are grieved but surely there is a way to alter the course of things. You who often now guard Túrin silently, did you not hear or see those actions that led Túrin to disgrace?'

And the maiden looked in wonder again on the face of the noble Beleg, so true to his friends. She felt ashamed for her outburst, and was willing to be of any help that she could.

'Indeed, I was sitting in a tree. They day was bright, the sun was soft on my skin, but Túrin was leaving Doriath and I felt saddened. I thought I heard him in the bushes a few paces away, but it was not he, for then he came walking along the path and the figure in the bushes jumped out at him! It was Saeros, heavily armed, ready to slay Túrin in an instant.'

To her own surprise, Beleg did not look shocked, but rather a grim expression had settled on his face.

'I had thought as much. Saeros had always much disliked Túrin's favour and fostering with the King,' he muttered. 'The hour is grave, Thingol is holding court, and Túrin shall be doomed, and banished from Menegroth less we hurry back now, and you speak in Túrin's favour.'

Nellas nodded, though her hands shook as they made their way silently to the halls of the King. As they arrived, the hall was silent, and Thingol's hand raised to speak his doom, darkly outlined by the sun, was all Beleg could see.

'Lord, may I yet speak?'*

  
  
  
**  
  
For three long years Beleg sought Turin in the wilds of Beleriand. He knew Túrin had joined a band of outlaws, so, after finding their trail he followed them tirelessly until he came upon their lair one night. But alas! For Túrin was not there, and his companions thought him a spy and bound him tightly to a tree. The night was cold, the wind bitter, and the binds cut into his flesh, but Beleg endured it, for the love of Túrin. No doubt he would come back soon and be shamed by the deeds of his supposed companions, he thought to himself. He was proved right.

  
  
'Túrin, you have no need to be an outlaw. Thingol has pardoned you. You are much needed on the marches, surely you shall come now?'  
  
'Nay, Beleg. The King may not hold me wronged, but I refuse his pardon, for it will be given to me out of pity. These men are my companions, we have shared much together, and I will not be parted from them. I am their leader now.'  
  
'But you are needed in Dimbar, we are companions in arms, are we not?'  
  
Túrin smiled sadly. 'I am too proud ,I am afraid. If you were to stay here, this side of Sirion I would be overjoyed, but I doubt you would accept such an offer.'  
  
'Alas you are right. I return to Dimbar, and that is where you can find me. I too would be overjoyed to fight beside you again.'  
  
The two parted, their friendship redeemed in spite of Beleg's harsh treatment by the outlaws, but neither knew what the future had planned out for them. After reporting back to Thingol, Beleg promised the King to guide Túrin as he could, and accepted Anglachel, a sword of great worth, as a gift, ignoring wise Melian's forewarning.  
  
  
**  
  
Back in his lodgings, on the north marches of Doriath, Beleg unsheathed his new sword. He turned it this way and that, so it could catch the light. As he gently touched the tip, it cut his finger. He immediately put the finger to his mouth, and then polished the blade anew. A faint echo sounded in his ears. He polished harder. The echoing grew louder. He paused. The echo receded to a low hum.   
  
'Why clean? Your blood shall spill afresh soon...' An ugly, gutteral voice rasped.  
  
'What is this? Does Anglachel hide a fey spirit?'  
  
'I was crafted by Eöl, the dark smith. Do you ignore that a part of his spirit crept into his work?' Again the voice laughed.  
  
Beleg was dismayed.  
  
'Why did I not abide by the Queen's counsel?'  
  
'Nay, that was impossible! For your fate is intertwined with mine.'  
  
'Hearken to me now, for I am your new master! You shall slay those that I wish slain, and not trouble my peace again.'  
  
'Verily you are. But not for long shall I be in your hands.'  
  
Beleg held the sword at arm's length and considered it under a new light. The metal gleamed darkly, menacingly, dazzling him, but it spoke no more.   
  
**  
  
  
Winter came, and it was not a good one. As Morgoth's power rose, so did the cold and the hunger of the people of Beleriand. War was stilled though, and Beleg grew thoughtful. He was not needed here in Doriath anymore, and he remembered his promise to Thingol.   
  
'_Seek for me on Amon Rûdh_, you told me, Túrin. Aye, I am coming.'  
  
He cloaked himself in white, and, taking Belthronding and Anglachel with him, he left his companions in Dimbar. He passed through the forest of Brethil, and stopped by the ravines of Teiglin. It was treacherous here, as he watched the rushing, wild water he suddenly felt calmer than he had been in a long time.  
Though as a child he had been brought up by the sea in the Falas, he did not miss it much. He preferred the roaring powerfulness of a stream or torrent, rather than the bleak, flat sea for he could be at one with nature and his thoughts. Cabed-en-Aras was the perfect place for such recollections.  
  
'How strange that I guarded young Túrin in childhood, and that I am going to do so now', he murmured. Life had not been easy for Túrin, and he was still not much more than a boy, at twenty-five. He had lost one sister from illness, his father was in the hands of Morgoth; and his mother, with the sister he did not know ,were stranded in Hithlum, and no news came from them.  
  
'One would think he is cursed, with all this woe in such a short life. I must guide him as I may, and hope that his future fortune will not be so ill.' Thus saying, Beleg left Cabed-en-Aras to come over the Crossings of Teiglin, where the water was not so wild, and passed south to Amon Rûdh.  
  
It was dusk when he approached the great hill, but from afar Beleg saw the red glow of a fire. Silently he grew nearer, and climbed the hidden paths to the cave's entrance. The outlaws, those that had treated him so cruelly, sat in a ring around the warmth once again, shivering nonetheless. Then he laid eyes upon Túrin, who was himself looking thoughtfully into the fire, as if searching for hidden answers in its midst. He took a step forward, and the man nearest the entrance sprang up in alarm, soon followed by the others. Beleg could not help but laugh at their fear; it was his turn to be the powerful one now. However when he turned to Túrin, the laugh died in his throat, and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, so glad was he to see his companion again. He looked much the same, though somewhat gaunter. He suspected they were oft going hungry, surviving on the meagre food they could find, now that winter was upon them.  
  
'Behold, Túrin, the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin! Take it, and together we shall return to Dimbar. Forget this dismal wilderness; the King is much grieved that you do not return. He calls you still foster-son.'   
  
'Nay! My feet shall never lead me back to Doriath. Abide with me here, in the House of Ransom.'  
  
For long Beleg did not speak, considering all things in their turn. Wisdom told him to return to Dimbar, where he would be needed in the coming of Spring. But he cared deeply for Túrin, they had been separated for long now, and remembering his promise to Thingol to guide and guard him as he could, he yielded to Túrin's request.  
  
'It is but for love of you that I remain, Túrin, against my better judgement.'  
  
  
Beleg took pity on the outlaws from then on. He gave them lembas, given to him by Melian, though none understood the high privilege. They grew stronger, and, as he was farsighted and mighty in lore of the wild, so he grew in their respect and admiration. The Dragon-helm and the Strongbow were reunited, the Two Captains, and from that day, all those that were despairing or desiring to fight the Enemy came to the house of Ransom, upon Amon Rûdh. Thus they won renown, and their deeds were told and sung throughout the land.  
Beleg would now talk oft with Andróg, who was the closest to Túrin of the outlaws, but who had on their first meeting been the most wary and cruel. They sat on the greensward, in front of the cave entrance where, looking west, towards the coast and place of his birth, Beleg watched Vasa set, its red ball of flame tingeing the horizon with its precious last rays, and gliding over West Beleriand, till finally all were in shadow. Beleg sighed. Andróg took this as a mark of weariness.  
  
'What do you say of the dwarf, Beleg?' He threw a sideways glance at the elf, eager to know his true feelings.  
  
'He led you to his house, here on Amon Rûdh. How many more shall he guide? Not all may be friendly. Dwarves do not meddle themselves in our battles, unless rewarded, for their nature is greedy and selfish.'  
  
'You mean that he may be in the service of the Enemy?'  
  
'I cannot say. I do not think he is, at the present time, but all can change, as quickly as a candle being blown out, or a leaf falling from a tree.'  
  
'I do not trust the old rogue. He has more than one trick up his sleeve, but Túrin wanted a safe harbouring for the winter, and a better place we could not find. I would have killed the dwarf, if it were not for him.'  
  
'A better place? Aye, you are sheltered from the cold, but Amon Rûdh is an easy target for attack.'  
  
'But it is also a fort we can defend together. We are all skilled enough in fighting; Túrin especially with a sword, and you and me with the bow. I grant you that the old dwarf would change sides quicker than you can say 'orc' but we've roamed the wild long enough, and know how to fight Angband's beasts.'  
  
'You are still too proud, Andróg. You once would have slain me had it not been for a kinder hearted man that thou.'  
  
'True. But for a band of outlaws, unloved by anyone save ourselves, all are the enemy.'  
  
'Túrin's words were wise at the time. Angband has servants enough.'  
  
'Let us quarrel no more. I admit I thought you a spy, but I judged too quick. We are allied now, and have brought peace to the land.'  
  
So spoke Andróg to Beleg, deeming little of the designs of Morgoth, who had, contrary to his beliefs, not forgotten Túrin.   
  
~End of phase the second.  


  
* Sentence lifted from Unfinished Tales, p.108.


End file.
